Smudges

Somebody must have spilt ink on the page, Gray as ghosts, paint still slick And the smudges must have formed the shape Of wings, coincidentally, like crows. They stain The dusk sky, hiding a storm. Surely, they were not meant to be there Circling sweet shelters of rustic glory, Picture-perfect nostalgia of time unknown. Clearly, the focus is flowers, sparks of bright color With the dull horizon dimmed and faded To let the brightness shine. These night-bird creature on wings Calling the eye from splendor Are a clumsy mistake. See how they are misshapen so? Crooked, uneven, overgrown. They have no shadows on the dirt For shadows need no shadows. Like a circle of deadly dark smoke Rising above dreams and peace, They can only be a mistake.

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